


The Court of Bones and Flesh

by Tlon



Category: Daredevil (TV)
Genre: Friendship, Gen, Kidnapping, M/M, Torture, Whump, this is probably not how interrogation works either, this is probably not how law works, why are there so many gangs in hell's kitchen anyways
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-15
Packaged: 2018-03-29 13:37:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3898255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tlon/pseuds/Tlon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Landman & Zack has given intern Matt Murdock only one case he could possibly feel proud of. Naturally, it's the one that almost takes him apart.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Currently cross-posting from the Daredevil kinkmeme: http://daredevilkink.dreamwidth.org/725.html?thread=195797#cmt195797
> 
> More hurt, some comfort. Matt, I am so, so sorry.

Matt wakes to stale air and the sound of machinery.

For a second, he wonders why his apartment feels so claustrophobic, and why he's lying on the floor fully clothed but barefoot. He can't have gotten that tired, not even working the hours of a white-shoe intern. He and Foggy haven't even had time to go out for a beer, let alone drink enough to make his brain feel this fuzzy. He tries to get up, but his hands won't respond, like they're caught on something behind his back -

Oh.

He snaps awake, back into something like rational thought. He's bound with a plastic zip tie, loosely enough that he can move his wrists but too tightly to squeeze out of it - at least not without more pain than he's willing to contemplate. Judging by the air pressure and the blunted background noise, he's underground, he's guessing somewhere industrial, although there's also something fishy... or maybe just watery... about it. The stiffness in his shoulders tells him he's been here at least a few hours. And the shallow breathing somewhere behind him tells him he's not alone.

“Hey, are you awake?” asks a familiar voice.

The last pieces fall back in place. Leaving the office late with Foggy. During the breaks in their conversation, two sets of footsteps that are a little too close, too regular, and too fast. An admonishment not to be paranoid. And then, as they're crossing an alley beside a burned-out storefront church, a set of hands on his neck, something warm against his nose and mouth. Turning and hitting something, a cry, a few steps, and then darkness.

He'd hoped they somehow hadn't gotten Foggy too.

“Yeah,” Matt croaks, rolling onto his back and levering himself into a sitting position. It makes him feel a little less lost, even with the momentary dizziness of blood rushing to his head. “How long have you been up?”

“How would I know? My phone's gone.” Foggy's heartbeat is as erratic as anybody's would be if they'd been snatched off the streets and woken up in a basement. His voice is shaking a little. “Do you have any idea what's going on?”

“No.” Without the use of his hands, Matt feels doubly blind. The only sense he can get of the room is that it's small, lit with a single bulb, poorly ventilated, on its way towards being stiflingly hot - which means that at least he's not missing something as obvious as an open door.

“Seriously, who bothers doing this? In the scheme of people to kidnap, I mean -”

“Quiet,” Matt whispers. He can hear two, maybe three pairs of shoes descending a set of stairs outside the room, heavy boots and something softer. One of them slides back a bar, and then there's the rattling sound of a key in a padlock.

There's a short burst of cool air as they open the door - three, definitely. Cigarette smoke covers most of their scent, but he gets a hint of cheap cologne and newly purchased polyester - masks, Matt thinks.

“These are them?” The voice is as middle-aged and weary as the heartbeat under it. “Which one's the blind one?”

Matt feels a hand reaching towards him. He ducks it, barely managing to keep his balance. He can't avoid the kick to his side that comes next, knocking the air from his lungs. His glasses are gone, he realizes. He feels the air and braces himself for another kick, but it never comes.

“Leave the poor bastard alone,” the tired man says. “Got a long enough night as it is.”

“You don't have a black fucking eye from his elbow.”

“Long night,” the man repeats.

Matt hears Foggy's breathing pause. _No_ , he thinks, _don't_. But he's already started speaking.

“Hey,” Foggy says. “If you're trying to get ransom or something, you've got the wrong guys. You'll probably just end up with our student loan de...” Matt can't see what makes him trail off, but it's sharp and takes a troublingly long time to come out of its sheath.

“ _Long_ night.”

“Can we get going, then?” It's the one Matt must have hit, younger and a little nasal. He can't hear a response, which judging from context probably means a nod. “Okay. Here's the deal. You're...”

The tired man clears his throat. “Sorry,” he says. “I think it would be better if I explained. Shorter. You're going to tell us where Patrick Newcomb is.”

Foggy stops breathing altogether for a few seconds. He must be coming to the same realization as Matt, and that's not good for either of them.

Patrick Newcomb is - was - a foreman at Regional Greens. He oversaw the construction of an affordable housing block that stood for all of five years before one of its sides sloped, crumbled, and collapsed, taking a retired bus driver, a hairdresser, and their three children with it. Officially, everything was examined, tested, certified. But Newcomb is prepared to testify that he was pressured into outsourcing most of the work and materials to a shell company, and that company is only a couple of degrees from one of the crude, scrapping crime families that are vying for control over the Mafia's leftovers.

This is the kind of man that Landman & Zack would usually be trying to destroy, not protect. It's the kind of man who has probably made nasty enemies by breaking ranks. Just this once, though, he and the surviving families are being backed by the philanthropist who helped fund the block in the first place. It's not just kindness; she has a reputation to keep up. But it's enough.

“I don't know what you're talking about,” Matt says. “I--”

A foot slams into his ribs again, and he barely manages to stay sitting. “Forget about him,” the nasal man says. “He's trouble. Ask his friend.”

“What?” Foggy's heart pounds. “Why would we know that? We're _interns_. I could barely tell you where the coffee machine is.”

“For your sake,” the tired man says, “I hope you can remember. Or rather...” he takes a step towards Matt. He's got a smoker's voice, a little raspy, but under it his tone is as sharp as steel. “...for his sake.”

The man seems slow, Matt thinks. He could probably get his feet under him and have a decent chance at a fight, even cuffed, as long as he can figure out how to keep the others away. But where would he go from there? He'd only be putting on a show, and guaranteeing awkward questions from Foggy later. So he stays in place until he feels a hand in his hair, yanking him up. He bites back a cry as the man - a third man, it must be, because his smell and breathing patterns are still unfamiliar - drags him across the room and into a chair.

“Ha. Let me,” says the nasal man, as Matt struggles. A fist slams into his stomach, and he doubles over, giving them enough time to tape his ankles to the chair legs. His hands are still pressing uncomfortably into its back; maybe they'll let him free, and he'll have a chance.

“We're going to tear him apart right in front of you,” the tired man tells Foggy. “We'd do the same to you, but it's not like he'd be able to see it, right?” Matt can tell he's in front of him now, and the sound suggests he's waving a hand in front of his face. But of course he can't know for sure, and it's better they underestimate him.

“I'm telling you!” Foggy's voice is rising. “I don't know - no!”

One of them punches Matt square in the face. He tries to stay quiet. Foggy's telling the truth, he can tell that from across the room. But they can't. He doesn't need to make Foggy feel any worse than necessary about what they're going to do.

“Hit him again,” the tired man says. One of the others complies. This time Matt can feel his lip split, and he tastes blood. Another punch comes before he's ready, and for a moment the world spins.

“Get his hands.”

This is it. Through his pain, Matt tenses, ready to attack. Except that... it won't get them free. He knows that. All it will do is make him feel less helpless, and show Foggy that he's been lying to him. Instead, he lets them cut the tie and tape his wrists down in front of him, bars of metal uncomfortably cold under his hands.

“We're going to break his fingers, Mr...” something rustles, like he's checking a note “...Nelson. As a start.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There are 206 bones in the adult human skeleton. 54 of them are in the hands.

When he feels someone else's body heat drawing close to him, he can't help it. He pulls at the tape, managing to stretch it enough to draw one of his arms back. Not enough. The hands that grab him are bigger than his, and they pry one fist apart, taking hold of his little finger. “Are you sure you don't know?” the third man whispers in his ear. Matt shakes his head and braces himself for the pain.

He's broken fingers, broken knuckles, in fights. The adrenalin cushioned him then, and he had the satisfaction of feeling them fracture against someone's face or chest. But he doesn't know how long they could keep him here, what they could do to him – or worse, to Foggy.

The man's fingers twist. Matt screams.

It's unbearable. The initial shock isn't even the bad part, or the sickening crack. It's how wrong his hand feels afterwards, loose and out of balance. And knowing that they could do this to him all night, if this actually is still night. There are 206 bones in the adult human skeleton. 54 of them are in the hands. How many could they get to?

Foggy is shouting as Matt tries to get his shaking body under control. “I told you! We don't know anything!” But the man has already moved to a second finger. He won't scream this time, Matt tells himself. He has to pretend this doesn't hurt as much as it does. He steadies his breathing and slips towards a meditative trance. It works, barely. He squeezes his pain into a jagged gasp, refusing to think about the damage they're doing. His hands are a separate entity, he tells himself. Nothing that these men do to them can hurt him. He tries not to think about what that might include.

The man doesn't wait for a response before the third finger. It takes Matt by surprise this time, but he manages to cut himself off mid-scream. He can't do anything about the tears that have gathered in his eyes. Maybe no one sees them.

“Do you think they're going to heal straight?” the tired man asks. “In my experience, it's a toss-up. But time is of the essence. Every minute we waste...”

Matt's hand _doesn't_ feel like a part of him anymore. It won't respond to his commands, just dead, puffy weight at the end of his arm. He's still got the thumb and forefinger, and his left hand, but who knows for how long. He fights back the fear that's rising in his chest. Everything he's ever read about cartels, war crimes, CIA torture, is coming back to him. When they're done with his hands, they'll have to move on to the rest of his body.

“Stop it!” Foggy screams at them. “Do you think I'd sit here and watch you torture my friend if I knew? I'd tell you anything if you'd just... stop--”

“I think you're _ambitious_ , Mr. Nelson. And so is Mr. Murdock.” He doesn't have to consult any notes this time. “And God knows how far I've seen that go.” Matt hears him pace around them. “Do another.”

It's taking all Matt has to keep the panic at bay. He has no reserves left when someone grabs his hand again, winces when they brush his broken fingers, feels the burn of tears down his cheeks. At least they seem to have decided on him as their victim. He doesn't think he could take being in Foggy's position.

When his forefinger goes, he doesn't scream. He doesn't do anything. He only realizes this when someone uncaps something harsh and ammoniac. They're probably planning to force it under his nose, but that's not even necessary – just having it in the room is enough to drag him back to the world. Foggy is screaming words that he can't parse, deafened as he is by the pulse in his ears. He only moans something that he hopes sounds like an apology. Don't worry, he tries to say. He can't get it out.

“...should talk it over,” he hears the tired man say, when he's regained some sliver of lucidity. “We'll leave you alone for a few minutes.”

When the door shut behinds them, Matt cries silently in relief.

*

Foggy has stopped shouting. His breathing is short and furious. “Are you okay?” he ventures.

Despite everything, Matt laughs. _I'm fine_ , he tries to say, but it comes out a garbled mess. He tries again. “O...kay,” he manages.

“I'm so sorry, God, Matt, I swear we will get out of this...”

Neither of them says anything more. Matt can barely think through the agony of his hand and the fear of what will happen when they come back. He wishes he were free just so he could touch Foggy's hand and remind himself that there's human contact besides pain. But before he can follow this thought long enough to start formulating a plan, the door creaks open again.

“Have you made a decision?”

He can't focus well enough to count how many there are, but the tired man is back, and he's had a cigarette. Lucky Strike. The smoke soaks into Matt's skin as he leans close.

“He just shook his head, over there, your friend Mr. Nelson. He likes seeing you hurt. What about you?”

Matt doesn't answer. He knows the man's trying to get a rise out of him – _he likes seeing you hurt_. But the heartbeat that's now behind his head is infuriatingly calm. Whoever he is, he's not new to this.

“Too bad,” the man murmurs, voice slightly muffled. He rummages in his blazer, its cheap, stiff fabric rustling.

“Sorry for generalizing, but I would assume you see with your hands, is that right?” he asks. “Or something like it.” He draws out something hard and compact that's been knocking against a half-empty pack of cigarettes. “Does that make your fingers a bit like your eyes? I would hate for anything to happen to my eyes.”

There's a snap of flint and metal. The lighter's not like the man's suit, or his cologne – it's gold-plated, by the smell, and not of this century. Its filaments have also not been exclusively used for lighting cigarettes.

Matt clenches his good hand. But the other is outside his control, too stiff to move. The man kneads it open with his grotesquely soft palm, pulse jumping whenever he manages to draw a gasp of pain. Then he presses its fingers down and forces one of them against the lighter's open flame.

At first, Matt doesn't feel it. A second later, it begins to wear against his flesh like a smooth stone. He grits his teeth as it sears the pad of his finger, but he can't stop his hand from shaking, trying to twist away. The man won't let him go, keeps holding the lighter down until his skin feels slick and swollen and plastic. Matt's glad he can't see the results; being able to smell the burn and hear the man's heavy, excited breathing is bad enough.

He manages to keep silent until it's over. The man prods at the newly rising blister, but Matt can no longer feel it. If only he didn't know what's coming.

The man is wrong, at least – he doesn't rely on his fingers nearly as much as most people rely on their eyes. But that doesn't make it any less agonizing when the lighter comes down on them. By the second, his muscles are so tense they've started to seize up. By the third, he's breathing in cracked sobs. By the fourth, he's making whispered pleas, quietly enough – he hopes – that Foggy can't hear him.

“No,” he moans. “Stop, no...”

The pain, or at least the new pain, stops momentarily. The lighter clips shut, and the man's palm snaps across his face.

“Does that hurt?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Matt has to do is survive. Foggy's the one who's in danger of breaking.

Matt hesitates, confused. A second slap reopens his lip, and while he's trying to stop the light, tickling flow of blood the man grabs his hand and squeezes it.

“Does it?”

“Yes!” he cries out finally. A hand in his hair is forcing his face up, exposing his tears to the heat of the light bulb.

“You should be grateful. That's the sign of a shallow burn; it hasn't killed the nerves yet. Why don't you tell Mr. Nelson what it feels like?”

“No, Foggy, it's not...” He feels the broken bones grate in his hand and screams again, cursing his weakness. This isn't fair, he thinks. It's not fair that he doesn't just have to endure this torture, he has to pretend he's not terrified about it. He makes the mistake of touching his thumb to one of the taut, round blisters. The sensation nearly makes him sick.

The man sighs heavily. “This is all annoyingly subtle,” he says, stepping back. “Cut him loose.”

Matt has no idea what this means. The scent of fear is drowning out the lingering smoke of the lighter, and the air in the room is thickening with every breath. His kidnapper – the one who wants revenge now, for his eye – pushes him up against the back of the chair and delivers a blow to his stomach. He retches, but there's nothing in his stomach except an acrid taste that sticks at the back of his throat. The man hits his face, a glancing blow that seems designed only to disorient him. It works, leaving him pliant while a knife zips through the tape on his wrists and ankles. And before he can even start to think about using his newfound freedom, he's being thrown to the floor, good hand barely breaking his fall.

A kick strains his ribs. He tries to curl up, but the man drives his foot back in, and the crack feels and sounds like a gunshot to his chest. The sudden, vicious tang of smelling salts clears his mind of everything but the pain, and he struggles as the man grabs his jacket's lapels and pins him against the wall.

“ _Where?_ ” Matt's head knocks against the cement, and he tries to relax, minimizing the damage. All he has to do is survive this, he tells himself. They'll leave him alone sooner or later, and he can figure out an escape.

All he has to do is survive.

They probably don't know he can fight. They probably don't know he can take a punch. He goes lax and fakes agony; maybe he can wait until the man tires and take him down. Even if that doesn't account for his interrogator, or whoever else might be beyond the door...

Then the man lands a hit on his side, and he's no longer faking anything. He gasps for breath, desperately trying to collapse and protect himself. Everything is spinning, and his ears are ringing so loud he can barely hear the voices that have started rising behind him.

For a weak, frantic moment Matt hopes the next punch will finish him off. It barely matters whether that means knocking him unconscious or dead, because he'd take either one over this pain and nausea. But then there'd be nothing between these men and Foggy. As long as he's awake, he's still some use.

He takes a halting, shallow breath and licks the blood off his lips. The man that's holding him has turned his head away, listening to a voice that feels like it's coming from the other side of a long hallway. With great effort, Matt identifies it as Foggy, his heart wild.

“I'll tell you,” Foggy is saying, voice cracking. “Just let him go, and I'll tell you anything.”

*

At first, all Matt feels is the bliss of the cool floor on the side of his face and his burned, broken hand. The bar is dropping on the door, marking the men's exit. And then he realizes what has just happened, and his stomach drops. It takes three tries to get out a sentence that sounds anything like English:

“You... don't... know.”

“What?” Foggy's voice is thin and trembling.

“You can't have told them... where he is. You don't... know. They're going to...” he takes another break to catch his breath, hoping Foggy will interrupt him so he won't have to keep talking. “They're going to... check. Be back. Angry.”

“I know.” Foggy is on the edge of hyperventilating, and Matt starts to crawl towards his voice, trying not to let his hand touch anything at all. “No! Don't try to move,” he shout-whispers. “You've probably got internal bleeding. That's why I... I mean, he was gonna kill you. Right there. There was nothing else I could do.”

“But... need us alive... information,” Matt manages.

“I don't know! You couldn't see him, Matt. I don't think he cared.”

Maybe it's the eye, he thinks. Maybe this man can't stand the idea that a blind law student managed to land a hit on him, has to show everyone who's in charge. It's working. Matt knows how many more things they can do to him – 206 bones, after all, many of them far more vital than his fingers. But that doesn't scare him, now. He just can't imagine hurting any worse.

He wants desperately to pull himself over to Foggy. Not because it would help them, but because it would let him feel the warmth of another human being, one who has only ever offered comfort. And because, no matter how much he tries to push the thought back, he's started to wonder if he'll ever get another chance.

“So what did... you say?” he asks instead.

“Oh. I... God, I made something up, something in Queens. Hopefully it'll take them some time to check it out.”

“We could be in... Queens,” Matt says. He doesn't think so, though. There's always too much construction in the outer boroughs, or too little. Behind the machines, their room has a dense quiet that feels like Manhattan.

Foggy's voice falls. “I know. I wish there were anything I could actually do. I'm sorry.”

But Matt is only half-listening, the rest of his attention focused on the footsteps behind the door.

He focuses on details to keep the panic at bay. There are only two, the man who's been running the interrogation and the one with the black eye, the one who hates him. The staircase they have descended is cement, approximately one flight, straight. From their slight hesitation, no handrails. And most importantly, he thinks he caught the hum of a truck and a hiss of wind as they came in. Which would mean that only two doors stand between him and freedom. Then the second of those doors opens, and freedom seems very far away.

“You two,” says the tired man, “have fucked up _incredibly_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for the kind comments and kudos. Seriously means a lot to me that people are enjoying this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things can always get worse. Always.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not that you probably didn't get this from the tags already, but serious non-con warning for this chapter.

Matt's not sure he could respond even if he wanted to. The next sentence, at least, doesn't seem directed at him.

“This isn't 1980. We can look up pictures, you know. Of, say, a vacant lot and a hospice. If that's what we happen to find. In the place we _should_ be looking for a _safe house_.”

“You wouldn't listen,” whispers Foggy. “I told you. We don't know.”

“Well, if you're still lying, I'm betting we'll find out soon. And if you're telling the truth... I think your pretty friend still owes _my_ friend a favor.”

Foggy makes a hoarse, questioning noise in the back of his throat.

“Don't kill him,” the tired man says to neither of them. “Not right now.”

He's digging out a cigarette as he leaves the room. His heartbeat is just as smooth as when he walked in.

Matt feels the second man looming above him. He can't muster the will to move. He's too tired to manage more then a weak cry when he's pushed onto his stomach. Then, too late, he registers the man's heavy breathing and racing heart. And the fingers tugging at his suit jacket.

He struggles, but the man is straddling him now, like hot leather against his back. His jacket peels off, and the man plants a hand between his shoulder blades, pinning him down. And then, slowly, the metallic drag of a knife.

The man feels intentionally careless as he hooks the knife under Matt's collar. He drags it down his arm, splitting cloth, sometimes slipping and nicking skin. Matt feels the sweat-soaked fabric come away, and the knife moves to the other arm, down his sides. The man's breath hitches at every gasp of pain, until the shirt is only strips of cloth and Matt's skin is bare under his rough fingers. The fingers are almost worse than the knife, kneading at his wounds, stroking his neck. He tries to flinch from them, but the man is too strong – or maybe he's not strong, maybe Matt is just too weak.

Then the fingers reach for the top button of his pants, and he understands what's going to happen. He tries one last, frantic attempt to throw the man off, and he nearly succeeds this time – but his body is failing, and the man has all night. “Go ahead, fight me,” the man murmurs as he pulls him back into place, touching his tongue to Matt's ear. “Makes it better.”

Matt feels the rough weave of the man's jeans on his thighs as the last of his clothing comes off. The fingers have moved down his back, around his hips. He starts to cough as the man presses him against the cement, but his bruises turn it into something more like a scream. The man smells of cologne and secondhand smoke and sex, and it makes Matt want to throw up.

“Please,” he whispers, quietly enough that he hopes Foggy can't hear. “Please, don't do this.”

He yelps as the man's teeth mark his neck. There's a hand in his hair now, forcing his face to the floor, and he can barely breathe, from fear as much as anything else. It can't hurt as much as what they've done already, he tells himself. It will humiliate him, but it can't push his body any further.

Beyond the man's reach, he hears muffled breathing and knows that Foggy has put his head in his hands.

He's right. It doesn't hurt as much. But with all his injuries, he still screams when the man thrusts into him, and he wishes he had the old pain back instead. He smells of smoke and cologne too now, like he'll never get it out. _Maybe I'll never get a chance to_ , he thinks, and suppresses it immediately. He suppresses the thought of snapping this man's neck. Nothing he thinks is any good here.

He's not good enough to meditate, with the man on top of him, moaning into his ear and twisting his hair. He manages to keep his mind blank enough. To keep from begging. But he can't stop the tears that are pooling under his eyes, soaking into the floor. They feel like a luxury – at least he has some way to express his pain that won't make Foggy feel worse.

The man wraps his hand around Matt's shoulder and slows his pace, digging his fingernails into his skin. One more set of bruises, that's all, Matt tells himself. That's all they can do to him in the end, rearrange his blood and skin and bones in unwelcome configurations. They can't force him to feel hopeless, or ashamed. It's just so hard to believe when he can't move or breathe or think beyond surviving the next few minutes.

He feels the man slam into him one last time and gasps breath as he's let free. He gathers all his strength and pulls his limbs under him, crawls towards the corner – he doesn't care what it does to him, he has to get as far away as possible. He's moved a few precious feet when a hand closes around his ankle.

“You didn't think we were done, did you?”

*

“'ll kill me,” Matt slurs. “Not supposed to.”

“Kill you?” The man presses one of his cuts until Matt gasps. “I'm going to make you like it.”

He rolls Matt onto his back, dizzying him. Matt's hand is throbbing mercilessly now; if he could see it, it would probably be well on its way to unrecognizable. Without thinking, he tries to use it to push off the weight that's settled on top of him. It sets him screaming, and the man laughs.

When he starts again, the man forces Matt's hips up, angles himself to send a jolt of unwanted pleasure through his body. It's still agony, still nauseating, but he feels himself stiffening and _God, no, please,_ it doesn't mean _anything_ he tells himself, but that won't stop his face from burning. “Stop, just hurt me, please just...”

The man runs fingers through his tangled hair and pulls, until his head is strained back and his neck bared. “You know what? I hope you don't tell me. Because then we get to do this again. And after that?” Matt blinks the tears out of his eyes, trying not to focus on the hot electric ecstasy of every touch on his skin. “Maybe we can sell you. Maybe a little worse for wear. But there are places that won't care about that. Not once they've got you chained down on your knees, and --” he runs a finger down Matt's side, pausing as he shudders at the sensation. “You love this, don't you?”

“No,” Matt protests, even if it's so hard to not feel like he's lying. He can barely think through the pounding of blood in his ears and his own fast, pained breathing. He'd give anything for the man to stop touching him, for this to be over –

He gasps as he comes, until his limbs feel too heavy to move, and all he can do is lie back, immobile, and let the man do what he wants. He cries, and he flinches when the man touches him, all the pleasure turned to horrible, crawling violation. But he doesn't beg. He's too far gone for that.

When the man finishes again, Matt doesn't try to escape his grasp. He rolls his head to the side, hoping only for rest.

He's not sure if he gets it. But he must pass out at some point, because he doesn't remember the man pinning his hands above his head, gagging him with a strip of his own shirt, producing the knife, until he comes back to a bolt of pain on his cheek, a warm trickle of blood, more slapping of skin against skin. He barely has time to cry out, coughing against the cloth, before he's out again.

Finally, he comes to, on the floor, alone. There's the sound of a zipper being done up and a shirt being straightened, perspiration wiped off a forehead. “Don't worry,” says the man, as he opens the door. “I'll be back for more.”

Foggy is silent – as silent as anyone can be, to Matt – until the door is locked and Matt has fumbled for his pants. He slides them on, haltingly, shaking almost too hard to fasten them. Or to pull out the gag, coppery with his own blood.

“Matt,” Foggy says, finally. “Oh, no. Matt.” He sobs, a cracked, rattling sound. “This is all my fault.”

Matt rubs at his arms, trying to scrape off the man's scent, his sweat. He hits his hand again, but he's too exhausted to do much more than fall flat back on the floor, nearly paralyzed.

“No. Not... yours,” he grinds out, every letter an effort. “My... choice.”

“What choice, Matt?” he winces at the edge on Foggy's voice. “There's nothing you could have told them! Any more than I did!”

Matt is silent.

“There's not!”

He rests his face against the floor.

“There's not... is there?”

“I--” something catches in his throat and he coughs, and the cough feels like it knocks his whole body apart. It's all he can do to keep from passing out again.

“Oh my God. You know.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's not much of a plan. But it's the best thing Matt can come up with, under the circumstances.

“I...” Matt manages to roll himself onto his side, facing Foggy. “Yes.”

“Did somebody tell you?” There are so many different kinds of hurt in his voice.

“Course... not. A couple of them were talking about it while I was going through some briefs.” It's technically true, and easier than explaining that they were two rooms away at the time.

“Well, where is he?”

Matt realizes he can't shake his head while lying down, so he lifts his uninjured hand instead. “You shouldn't know. They shouldn't be... able to get to you, too.”

“They won't have to. Because we're telling them. As soon as somebody walks through that door.”

Matt's ribs are protesting, and he takes stock of his injuries. His hand is ruined, useless, who knows for how long. His lip and cheek are swelling, and he can feel a lump rising on the back of his head. If it's a concussion, he's probably in no state to tell. There's a stab in his side and stomach every time he tries to breathe. And then there's everything that he doesn't want to think about, the bites and the cuts and the tearing, throbbing pain inside him.

“No.”

“You can't be saying this. You – this is our only chance. We've got to get you out of here.”

“We'll find something else.”

“What else could we possibly find? I don't even know how long you'll be – ” his voice breaks down, and for a few seconds all Matt hears are quiet, choking breaths. “I don't know how long you can hold on. Newcomb can take care of himself. He's got protection. But you're right here, and Matt you're – ”

“They won't let us go. They'll kill us, or... you heard him... they'll sell us or...”

“You idiot! It's better than watching you _die_!” Foggy cuts off abruptly. “I'm... sorry, I didn't mean to yell at you. I'm just... I'm scared, Matt.”

The fear is seeping into Matt's bones too. The room's dank, hot air is smothering him, it feels like a tomb already, except that a tomb wouldn't stink of blood and sweat. He doesn't know when the man will be back. For a moment all he wants to do is tell Foggy the location and throw himself on their mercy, whatever they do to them. But he can't even let himself consider that.

“Foggy, we've... what have we done at Landman & Zack? We've sat in while they were filing lawsuits against sick old men. While they were trying to put... gag orders on kids with lead poisoning. All we've done, every single case – ” he breaks off coughing and has to stop, compose himself “ – is make sure that people who are suffering get as little as humanly possible. But we've finally got one case – one – that stands a chance at helping somebody. I don't care what it takes. I'm not going to screw it up.”

They're both silent for a long time. Matt listens to Foggy's uneven, terrified breathing, his occasional sobs. He hears him steady his voice. “Okay. But what... I don't know what else we can do.”

“I'll figure it out. Somehow.” Matt doesn't bother trying to smile, because he's sure it would make him look even worse. But he tries to at least make sure he's not wincing in pain. "Don't worry."

*

Matt pauses to stop the world from spinning. “Can you move?” he asks.

“They've got one of those plastic things. You know, the bands, they get tighter and you can't--”

“They're called zip ties.”

“Oh. Well, it's stuck through something on the wall.” Foggy laughs hollowly. “Unless you somehow got a knife...”

Matt takes stock of the room and its contents. There's the chair they'd taped him to in the corner, a trickle of air through one side, through a grill probably too small for him to fit an arm inside, even if he were somehow able to get it off. It smells slightly of dust and oil. And beyond the background noise, he's sure that the only electric thing in here is the bulb above them.

“Foggy, that – light. Is there anything around it?”

“Nothing. The switch must be outside, though, because I don't see any – Matt, what are you doing?”

Matt rolls heavily onto one elbow. His muscles can barely support his weight, and his bones pop unpleasantly. But, after what feels like hours, he makes it to his knees.

“I told you, you can't do this to yourself.”

Matt skims his good hand along the floor until he finds a piece of his shirt, torn and soaked with sweat. He clutches it, fighting back the memory of that weight on his back, the revulsion and helplessness. Then he grits his teeth in preparation for the pain he knows is coming next.

“Matt!”

“This is our only – only chance,” he says, drawing as deep a breath as his cracked rib will allow. “And I can't do it alone. We need... to get you loose.”

They haven't hurt his legs, at least. He can be thankful for that. It's not much, though, as his rib screeches and hot blood swells in his broken hand. He desperately tries to keep his screams low, and he's nearly glad he's blind, because he wouldn't be able to see now anyways, through the tears in his eyes.

The bulb burns like a sun above his head. He swallows and reaches up with his good arm, hoping it's as low as it feels from down here.

“It's... it's a little in front of you.” Foggy's voice has come back a little stronger. “Be careful.”

He yelps and jerks his hand back as his fingers brush the hot glass. It's just low enough, he decides, tugging up the piece of his shirt with his teeth. It had better be.

His ribs protest again, and they're not the only thing. But his hand is insulated from the worst of the heat, the bulb jiggling when he touches it. , he counts, twisting as far as his fingers will allow. _Two. Three._ He can't think about that door opening again, or of what he'll do when it does. This slow rotation, at least, is completely under his control. _Four. Five._

His arm is tiring quickly, and he turns faster, feeling the light loosen. _Ten, eleven_ –

It slips out of its socket, sliding through his clumsy, cloth-wrapped hand. The crash sounds like a chandelier hitting a hall of mirrors, but that's only to him, he thinks. There's nobody close enough to have heard it outside that thick metal door.

He drops to his knees, ignoring the sliver of glass that buries itself in his skin. He ignores the lightness in his head, ignores the cuts as he sweeps the floor. Ignores everything except the metal base of the bulb, its edges brittle with glass.

“Spread your hands out,” he tells Foggy as he crawls over, trying to avoid the rest of the broken bulb. “And stretch the, stretch the... plastic as tight as you can.”

How much longer does he have? If only he knew, and he could sink his head into Foggy's jacket and shut his eyes and feel, for a moment, safe.

Not yet. He grips the bulb in shaking fingers and fits its jagged edges into the plastic around Foggy's wrists. It's thin, like the tie they used on him. Maybe it will fray. No, not maybe. It has to.

He thought the glass would slice like a knife, but it's slippery, always threatening to leap off the tie and into Foggy's skin. Keeping it in place would be hard enough with two hands, but his right hand is worse than useless, stiff and swollen at his side. It's not strong like a knife either – he can feel pieces chipping off with every nick in the plastic.

Foggy is so still he's barely breathing. When Matt loses control and the edge of the glass touches his skin, he flinches, just for a second. That's all. Matt could hug him for it, if he were capable of doing anything but sawing at the tie. His cramping, aching hand feels like it's been clutching the bulb forever.

But it's working.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The main lesson I learned from writing this chapter is that light bulbs are _tough as fuck_ when you're deliberately trying to break them. Seriously, try dropping one. Try dropping it like ten times. Try angling it so it'll drop on its side, where it's structurally weakest, and watch it bounce back again. It knows what you're doing, and it just wants no part of it.
> 
> They are slightly more susceptible to hammers.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time to go. Where? Who knows.

The bulb is nearly worn to its hilt. He can feel the plastic threads as they fray, hear the teeth-grating sound of glass. Pauses, gasps in a breath, and finds the notch again, waiting for Foggy to pull it just a little further. Presses the glass back in.

He nearly falls into the wall. The plastic parts with a snap, and Foggy shakes off the tie, catching Matt before his injured hand can hit the cement.

Matt collapses on his shoulder, and Foggy keeps his arms around him, the salt of tears stinging the air. “You're insane. You're _completely_ insane,” he says. “Thank God.”

Matt nods. “We should... move.”

“Move where? It doesn't matter to you, but it's pitch black here.”

“It's okay. I have a... plan.”

Matt doesn't know how much time they'll have. He doesn't know how many people will be back. He doesn't know if he'll still be conscious by the time they arrive. But the plan gives him focus, no matter how simple it is. He guides Foggy, preparing for questions that never come – his heightened senses must not seem so extraordinary in the dark, when any kind of awareness, for the seeing, is hard to come by. He stands by the edge of the door. And then he waits, through every single, sickening moment, until the crunch of footsteps starts at the top of the stairs.

One. The one with the black eye. Relaxed. Showered. Key. Rattling. Creak.

“Hey,” the man says as he opens the door. He scrapes a hand along the wall outside, flicking a cheap plastic switch, first once, tentatively, then in a string of angry clicks.

Matt freezes. He wonders if the man can find him somehow, if he'll have a flashlight. A fight, a fair one, can only end one way. He imagines being pushed down again, being stripped again. Imagines those hands on him.

“Fucking lights. Guess you wouldn't know, though, would you?” The man steps forward, into the room. And falls.

The chair they've placed isn't much of an obstacle, but it sends him stumbling. And he's out of his element here. Not used to inconvenience. Bastard.

Matt nearly snarls as he runs his one good fist into the space around the man's heartbeat. “God _damn_ it--” the man starts as the momentum sends them both to the floor. Matt slams his fist into his side, again and again. He doesn't care about the creak of bones in his chest, doesn't care how clumsy he would look in the light, lurching off-balance with every punch. He only wishes he'd thought to keep hold of a piece of broken glass.

A boot connects with Matt's leg, and he yells, throwing his weight onto the man, forcing his knee up into his stomach, shaking, sweating, grabbing the man's hair to knock his head against the floor, because it's not enough, it'll never be enough...

“Matt!” Foggy clumsily touches his shoulder and jumps back as Matt jerks an elbow at him, gasping. “Matt. We have to... come on.”

Matt stops, mumbles something that even he can't really understand. Foggy is right, and he has the strips of Matt's shirt ready, like he told him. Anything beyond that, he's too dizzy to pick up on as he drags himself away. He thinks he hears a crack and a guttural yell as Foggy approaches the man, just before Foggy begins the process of binding his arms. Ribs, he thinks. Hopefully a lot of them.

He can't stand, he realizes. It's hard to tell which direction he should be going, and once he's sure, his legs won't take him there, not even when he finds the wall and tries to slide his way up it. He keeps his hand on it anyways, pushing it flat against the cement. He could just wait here, just die here.

And then Foggy is there, sliding an arm gingerly around him. “I, God I'm sorry if this hurts, I'm... just... I'm sorry, Matt. For everything.” He pulls him up, and Matt manages not to scream. He owes him that much.

He holds tight to the wall as Foggy shuts the door behind them, and he hears all the noises from before in reverse: the snapping padlock, the sliding bar. And sweeter than anything, the furious, panicked shouts from the other side.

They're alone, for now. The air is cooling, warmed only by the feeble heat of a light bulb swinging at the top of the stairs. The oil and dust and water is all coalescing into a blessedly familiar sense of place.

“Hudson – Yards,” Matt chokes out as Foggy helps him take another step up.

“What?”

Matt can't explain it – he's too busy trying not to roll back down the stairs. But tears of relief are pricking under his eyes, knowing they're so close to home. It gives him the energy to force himself up the last few feet, until Foggy pushes the door open and the lonely hum of a nighttime Manhattan highway fills the air.

“Oh my god, you were right,” says Foggy. His voice bounces faintly off the overpasses and the cracked cement. “I could really use a sense of direction right now.”

Matt listens until he thinks he's found it: the vast whisper of the Hudson down the side of the island. To the other side of them, there will be parking garages and billboards and storage centers. And to the side of that, bodegas and bars and human beings. If only they can get there.

“That way,” he says, making a gesture that he hopes Foggy can see.

There are human beings here, though, too. He can't tell any more than that, but he imagines the tired man smoking his cigarettes and the third man doing whatever it is he does, biding time until they decide to visit their captives or notice that their partner has been with them a little bit too long.

He strains for the sound of feet or voices, but all he can hear is a long, droning hum that seems to be coming from inside his own ears. When Foggy takes a step forward, he slides off, barely catching himself before he hits the ground. On his knees and his good – or better, at least – hand, he retches, eyes squeezed shut.

“Can't,” he protests as Foggy tries to help him up again. “You go.”

“I... what? No.”

“It... yes,” Matt says. He wants to explain so many things: he'll slow them down, won't be able to keep silent whenever an errant step aggravates this feeble wound of a body. If there's no other choice, it's better that one of them make it than neither. But the fact is that he just can't imagine moving another step. “Go.”

Foggy shakes his head hard enough that Matt can hear his hair move. “I'm not leaving you here.”

“Not here... then,” Matt says. “Around the corner. Come back... fast. But I... please. Please.”

Foggy lifts him one more time, half-carrying him. Matt can't tell where they're going any more, just that the air is stinging against his bare chest and the gravel of a construction site digging into his bare feet. He is vulnerable against the night. And he's beyond caring about it.

A car's brakes grind on the road above them. Across the city, a siren swells and fades going south, towards Bellevue. The cotton of Foggy's jacket scrapes against his shirt as he pulls it off. Its warmth and smell are almost narcotic as he wraps it around Matt's shoulders. None of these thoughts are useful. They are all, in their way, comforting.

“I promise, it'll be five minutes,” Foggy whispers. “I... I goddamn _promise_.”

It's the last thing Matt remembers before the world dissolves.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes justice doesn't feel like enough. But he can't let that matter.

Matt wakes to sterile air and the sound of rubber on linoleum.

At first, again, he thinks he's in some strange part of his apartment he's never been, with floral air fresheners covering the smell of antiseptic and brisk footsteps pacing outside his door. Then he remembers the cement room, and he freezes. No, he thinks. They can't –

“Matt.”

Foggy's hand rests lightly on his arm, and he slowly puts all the pieces of his environment together: the scent, the narrow metal-framed bed, the stiff foam and gauze that's stuck between all the fingers of his right hand. He doesn't even hurt; the pain has been excised like a tumor. Parts of his mind seem to have gone with it, because he can't think of anything to say. He just fumbles with his good hand – which still has its own share of bandages – until it finds some of Foggy's fingers and squeezes.

“How long?” he asks finally, after what feels like several minutes of preparing the words.

“You've been asleep, I don't know, twelve hours.”

“And how long... were – ”

“A night,” he says. “It was – not even just a night. The sun came up a few hours after I got back.”

“And all of them...”

Foggy makes a noise in the back of his throat, like he's about to say something and stops. “Not yet. But they... Landman & Zack say we don't have to worry. They also... there's a settlement. From them. I guess you probably can't sign it right now.”

“Ha. Maybe we can get them to pay to set up Nelson & Murdock.”

Foggy doesn't laugh. His hand goes still in Matt's.

“What?”

“Nothing. It's just – this whole thing, it's creepy now. Dangerous. It was... I mean I know we were always going to be dealing with criminals. But... what are we going to do now? What's it going to be like knowing that everybody we meet might send people out to kill us? Or worse? I couldn't do that again, Matt. I don't know if I can do _this_.”

The pain is starting to come back, little waves lapping around the edges of his body. There's going to be an ocean of it soon, he knows. A nurse will have to come to push it back for him eventually, tick off a list of its sources. He'll have to listen to a doctor run through his hours of pain. He'll have to listen to them explain exactly what was done to him while he was strapped helpless to a chair, or pinned against the floor. How they took his body – the only tool he has – and used it against him.

He won't be able to describe the men who did it – well, he could, but no one else would be able to use what he knows, because all they can do is look for things. They're still out there, all three of them, and they know where he works. They probably know where he lives. The best he can hope for is that they don't think he's worth it, a blind man who was too busy being beaten half to death to pick up on anything important. And that doesn't help Foggy.

And what if the police do catch them? There's nothing that can directly link them to Regional Greens. For all he knows, Landman & Zack will never let it go to trial – they'll think it's an embarrassment. If they do, he'll have to let a court draw his pain out, over and over, line by line. He'll have to describe what it's like to scream and beg. And no matter what he tells them, the defense will say – because they have to, it's their job – that he enjoyed it.

“It was bad luck, Foggy. Monsters are out there. Everywhere. And sometimes they find you. No matter how careful you try to be.”

“No, Matt, those were men.” Foggy's hand is cold. It sweats. “And they followed a clear chain of cause and effect, and it led them right to us. To you.”

Matt wishes they'd given him glasses. He tries to steady his voice. “What about the people in Newcomb's building? Maybe somebody could have predicted when it would collapse. But who's inside – that didn't matter to them. As long as they're still out there, this is just what they do, I've seen it. They hurt. Anybody in their way.”

“That's when you get _out_ of the way.”

“Not if you can stop them.” The fingers of his right hand are beginning to itch, the gauze stinging his skin like nettles. “They're bigger than us, and stronger, and richer. But once we're in the courtroom with them, none of that makes any difference. All that matters is knowing the rules, and knowing the truth. And that's why we're here. Because whatever they can do to us... we scare the hell out of them.”

He can almost believe it, while he's speaking. But whatever happens, he knows they'll never really be able to tip the scales. All the law can take is years and money. You can't break years. Money can't feel you burn it.

He needs to tell Foggy, so Foggy can tell him when he forgets: the law works towards justice, not vengeance. If he can't remember the difference, then all his work means nothing. And then... who knows what he might do.

Right now, though, he just savors the air on his skin and the slow thud of Foggy's heartbeat, and even though he knows the pain will be here soon, he has a few minutes of peace left in him.

He hopes he can make them last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, everybody. And for the comments and kudos. Seriously, it's been great. Be seeing you.


End file.
